Shedding Facades
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Afraid that their marriage might feel like a lie if he weds Aziraphale in his human form, Crowley makes a bold, last-minute decision ... Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Written to include Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompt 'wrapping paper'.**_

"I object."

Stunned silence follows – gaping mouths, bugged eyes, the comical expressions of an audience thrown for such a phenomenal loop, they may not even be standing on planet Earth any longer.

"You what now?"

"I … uh … I … object. I'm sorry."

"H-how can you object!?" Anathema asks, strangling the book she's holding in her hands as if it had spoken those blasphemous words instead. "This is _your_ wedding!" She glares at Crowley, eyes broiling on behalf of her good friend, poor Mr. Fell, himself staring at his betrothed with the depth of shock that comes from discovering that every person you've ever known and loved has been executed all at once on the exact same day when their severed heads arrive on your doorstep by post, collect-on-delivery.

But that's exactly what Crowley is doing – the evilest thing he's ever accomplished as a demon.

Destroying Aziraphale's world.

If he'd ever wanted to discorporate Aziraphale in an instant, those words at this particular moment would do it.

Crowley doesn't look up to face the consequences, even though he knows he's expected to. He's been silently staring at his and Aziraphale's joined hands since the ceremony began.

And that's where his eyes stay.

"I can't," he repeats. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Wha-what?" Aziraphale has plenty more to say, but when it comes down to it, that's all that will come out. "What are you …?" He shakes his head, trying to rattle more words together, but he doesn't succeed. "What?"

"I can't do this," Crowley says a bit more firmly. "I can't marry you this way."

"But I …" Aziraphale looks at the party gathered – an intimate group of their closest friends, linking hands and forming a circle around them, standing so close there would be no mistaking what Crowley just said.

He looks at the ridiculously elaborate venue Crowley had insisted upon; at the fairy lights strewn over everything that wouldn't move to complement the miracled constellations over their heads; at an ocean of flowers covering every conceivable surface; at the banquet table full of gourmet food waiting to be eaten; at the red velvet runners, the golden candlesticks, the miles of white tulle; the string quartet, sitting in a far corner, waiting for their cue. And the cake – the twelve-tiered wedding cake humorously crafted to display the nine levels of Hell, each ring adorned with tormented souls rendered out of fondant, and a staircase leading up to Earth, with Heaven cascading above, an angel in white robes and a devil in black hovering in the accentuated space between.

Finally, he looks at the demon standing before him, gloriously handsome in a simple black tux and classic rose boutonniere, staring at him from behind Armani sunglasses.

At this point in the ceremony, which Anathema was officiating, they were a few short acknowledgements away from exchanging vows and saying their _I do's_. Then they'd be dancing and laughing and cutting into that cake, which he's heard tell is filled with pitch-black, dark chocolate ganache. He doesn't know since, like everything else, _he_ didn't order it. Didn't plan it at all. _Crowley_ did. He planned this whole shebang, saw to every little detail.

But now Crowley says he can't go through with it.

After giving absolutely no indication whatsoever that marrying Aziraphale was something he didn't want to do, he's saying no.

"I … I don't understand," Aziraphale stammers. "_Why_?"

"Because …" Crowley chuckles "… I'm not dressed for it."

A pause, then nervous laughter hops from the throat of human guest to human guest, starting with Newt, infecting Madame Tracy, bypassing Shadwell but migrating through Warlock and Adam and the rest of The Them. The only two who have yet to see the humor are Anathema and Aziraphale.

"I don't understand," Aziraphale repeats, his voice straying its course, becoming pitchy and weak, only finding its strength in embarrassment. "You picked that tuxedo out yourself. If you didn't want to wear it, I … _what are you saying_?"

Crowley sighs. This isn't going well. Of course, when you object at your own wedding, things will tend to go downhill after.

"I mean _me_, Aziraphale. Not the tuxedo. _Me_."

"Please explain," Aziraphale begs, beginning to back away. But Crowley, holding his hands like his life depends on it, urges him back.

"Look at me, angel, and tell me what you see."

"I see _you_, Crowley! The same you I've been looking at for over 6000 years!"

"And what does that look like?"

Aziraphale's head continues to shake – desperation, exasperation, and every other –tion twisting it side to side. "Red hair, yellow eyes, pale skin, sharp nose and chin …"

"Right. My _human_ form. But that's not _me_. Not inside." Crowley gives Aziraphale's hands a squeeze meant to comfort him, but he's far from there. "I'm very fond of my human form but … it's wrapping paper. It's not who I really am."

"It is," Aziraphale assures him, relaxing when he comprehends. "It's the way you see yourself. It's the way you want others to see you and that's fine."

"I appreciate you saying that. But this …" He gestures with his and Aziraphale's hands towards his body "_I_ … run deeper. I have no intention of giving this form up, but it doesn't feel real to me when I'm about to pledge my life to you. It feels like a lie. And that's not what I want. Not today."

Aziraphale swallows hard, his confusion returning. "So, you don't want to marry me?"

"Of course I do! But not this way."

Aziraphale glances at their befuddled friends, concerned if Crowley means what he thinks he means ... "But how do you intend …?"

Crowley leans in and gives Aziraphale a wink. "I've got a plan." He lets go of Aziraphale's hands and claps to get everyone's attention. "Okay, ladies and gents! I'm going to need you all to back up about twenty paces! And … uh … just a head's up, there's a sixty-two percent chance that what I'm about to do might melt your brains."

Fearful eyes snap Crowley's way. "_What_!?"

"Or make you go blind." He shrugs. "Either way."

_"Are you joking!?"_

_"He has to be joking!"_

_"Is that a fire exit!?"_

_"Let's go check!"_

He does get a solitary, "Awesome!" from Warlock, who fishes his cell phone from his pocket, opens the camera app, and waits for the show to begin.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. "Relax, everybody." He snaps his fingers. From the constellations above, a sprinkling of silver and gold dust falls upon the onlookers, clinging to clothes and hair and faces till they look like they're covered in stars. "There we go. Now no one's brain is going to melt. You may have nightmares after, but I can fix that later on."

"That's a relief," Tracy mutters sarcastically.

"But what about …?" Pepper nods pointedly over her shoulder at the two violinists, the violist, and the cellist watching the proceedings with interest.

"… the musicians?" Brian finishes. "They don't know about you guys, do they?"

"They won't see anything out of the ordinary. They think they're watching a plain, old, _normal_ wedding," Aziraphale explains, bitter emphasis aimed at his groom. But as his world isn't coming to an end, he feels free to joke. "They'll come around right on time to play the wedding march."

"Sounds good, I guess," Wensleydale says, moving to hide behind Brian.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who has widened his stance, giving himself an invisible boundary for the guests to stay behind. "Are you ready, my dear?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," he replies, striking Aziraphale as more excited than he's seemed all day. Crowley doesn't like changing into his demon form. He's always afraid he'll forget how to change back so he avoids it when he can. So this must have been bothering him for a while.

All of today at least.

Crowley miracles away his glasses and closes his eyes.

The room falls deathly quiet, the human participants subconsciously widening their circle as they wait for something to happen. Only Anathema and Aziraphale remain inside, more prepared than anyone for what's about to happen.

Crowley transforms by inches. His hair disappears, falling to the floor in clumps, the remainder oil-slick black. Wings erupt, glossy black feathers immediately shedding to reveal a thin, veiny membrane. Nails grow into sharp, curved claws. Bones elongate, joints popping as they widen to accommodate. He didn't remove his clothes beforehand so the tearing of fabric is what the guests hear.

It covers for the less-palatable sound of tearing flesh.

Then there are the maggots. As much as he would hide them to lessen the impact on their friends, if he's going to go through with this, he needs to go for broke. He feels them always, brimming beneath his human façade, squirming and rooting and otherwise being a nuisance. But he knows when they're seen by the subtle grumblings of discomfort accompanied by the unsettling scritch of them falling to the carpet beneath his feet.

The tips of his wings hit the floor, signaling the end of his metamorphosis. The ache of splitting muscles and reshaping bones dies down, and he opens featureless black eyes. His full form with wings splayed is so cumbersome, it forces him to hunch, his spine curling into a jagged question mark.

It takes him a minute before he summons the courage to look at the faces of their friends watching him, see by their expressions what they think of him this way. It's not as bad as he'd imagined. But then again, if it had been, he might not be able to call these humans _friends_.

"O…kay," Newt whispers, but that's all.

Madame Tracy throws a hand over her mouth - in disgust, Crowley imagines, but there are tears in her eyes and a wobbly smile on her lips.

Shadwell, who doesn't know how to react, puts himself a step in front of her and gets his finger ready, just in case.

"Cool!" everyone under the age of thirteen says, unprompted and at relatively the same time.

Anathema clears her throat. "Good. Fine. Now that that's resolved, may we continue?"

The demon Crowley, in his true demon form, limps towards his fiancé, one leg dragging with a grating nails-on-chalkboard noise, dulled for the humans by Aziraphale's miracled star armor. Crowley stops in front of Anathema, swaying like a snake, balancing his weight on legs that should be too thin and brittle to support him.

"Where were we?" she asks, opening her book and doing her best to appear unfazed. She'd taken the liberty, after their Notta-pocalypse encounter, to study up on demons, learn everything she could about them, seeing as she was now personally acquainted with one. She'd read ancient texts, examined old drawings. She thought she was ready to face whatever Crowley might dish out.

She may have been wrong.

"The vows, I believe." Aziraphale's gaze never leaves his demon's face. He raises a hand to it, cheeks damp and eyes moist.

"Of course. Who wants to go first?"

"I will," Crowley snarls unintentionally, but he's out of practice speaking through these pointed teeth and with this forked tongue.

Anathema nods, relinquishing the floor.

"Aziraphale," Crowley hisses, "will you take me, me the way I truly am, to be yoursss – your ssspouse, your partner, your sssignificant other, for as long as we remain on this planet, in Heaven or Hell, or up in the ssstars? Even if …" And this is where he stumbles. Later, Aziraphale will reflect on this, come to the conclusion that this may have been what it was all about, what Crowley was sincerely afraid of "… for sssome horrible reassson, one day, I end up sssstaying this way? Will you marry me?"

Crowley reaches out skeletal claws and takes Aziraphale's soft, pink hands in his.

Aziraphale stares into the stony black eyes of the demon looming before him. He's never seen Crowley like this. In all the years they've spent as friends, Crowley as a demon, as a _monster_, is something Aziraphale never had to witness. On the flip side, Crowley has yet to see Aziraphale's true form. But Crowley was an angel once. He would know what angels look like. It should be old hat to him.

But Crowley is a sight to behold.

Aziraphale doesn't speak, doesn't nod, doesn't indicate an answer in any way. He is struck dumb not by Crowley's physical form, but by his vulnerability – his willingness to expose the part of himself that he fears the most to not only Aziraphale, but their room full of friends, just so their marriage might not be deemed illegitimate.

Well, if Crowley is going all out, he might as well, too.

The seams of Aziraphale's jacket rip. Rays of light bleed through, forcing them open. A set of white wings springs out from underneath, then another, and another, slicing through like scissors. The remaining fabric of his fine, white coat falls to the ground in a tattered heap at what should be his feet. But he has no feet since he is no longer human shaped. He is formless, wings and eyes surrounding the spiritual essence of the Principality Aziraphale.

He is a golden light. A _holy_ light.

He is infinite.

And soon, he and Crowley will be infinite together.

"I will."


End file.
